There were two forensic technicians in the room dressed in lightweight protective gear, gloves, and booties. One tech sketched the room layout while the other photographed.
What struck Zoe immediately was the explosion of red on the carpeting by the dresser. The blood not only pooled on the gray carpet, but it also arched in one defined, parabolic curve on the wall. The downward strike of a weapon created the wound, and drawing it back dispersed the blood. She pictured the knife blade going into the victim and tearing skin, and then, as the killer drew back the blade, the blood flinging onto the wall.
She doubted this blood belonged to the surviving husband, because whoever had been stabbed in this room had been struck in a major artery and immediately suffered massive blood loss. And judging by the profuse amount of blood staining the carpet, that injured party had fallen to their knees and then pitched forward onto the carpet face-first.
Just beyond the blood was a king-size bed that had been neatly made. The pillows were in place and the comforter smoothed.
One tech faced them. “Scene reminds me of the motel room. What are the chances of two similar stabbings in twenty-four hours?”
“Two stabbings in a densely populated area like this aren’t out of the realm of possibilities,” Zoe said.
“Bud, this is FBI special agent Zoe Spencer,” Vaughan said. “Agent Spencer, this is Bud Clary, and his colleague is Mike Brown.”
“Gentlemen,” she said. “Feel free to kick us out if we get in the way.”
Both men glanced at each other and then nodded to her. Having the FBI on scene always changed the dynamics of their interactions.
“What’s your status of the motel scene?” Vaughan asked.
“We wrapped up late last night. But the room remains sealed should we need to double back.”
Zoe suspected now that the Foster case was front and center, the faceless sex worker’s death would sadly be shifted to a back burner. And judging by Vaughan’s frown, this truth did not sit well with him.
“We’ve only started with the house,” Bud said. “It’ll take us a good twenty-four to forty-eight hours to process it. I’ve called Fiona so she can also join us. As you can see, there is blood through most of the house.”
“Mind if we have a look?” Vaughan asked. “We won’t touch.”
“Much appreciated,” Bud said. “Just follow the path I’ve marked.”
“Will do,” Vaughan said.
“Bud, let us know if you find cell phones or computers,” Zoe said.
“Consider it done.”
She looked past the techs, noting more studio-quality photos of the Foster family. In the early pictures, when Skylar had been about twelve, there was a black lab puppy in the picture; however, in later shots, the dog was gone. How old would the dog have been now? Five or six?
Zoe walked up to the entrance of the bathroom. The floor appeared wiped clean, and there was no visible blood. The towel rack was empty. “The towels are missing.”
“Towels?” Bud asked.
“The bath towels. They were arranged neatly in Skylar’s bathroom, but they aren’t in here.”
“Someone tried to stop the bleeding.”
“Or clean up the floor,” Zoe said.
“It was the same in Jane Doe’s motel room,” Bud offered. “The bathroom had been wiped clean, and towels were missing. He took the towels he used with him.”
“Another similarity between the two crimes,” Zoe said.
“They are hard to ignore,” Vaughan said.
“A gut feeling?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“As long as you don’t mix gut feelings with facts,” she said.
The collection of perfume bottles was lined up perfectly on the marble countertop, and beside them was a small notebook that appeared to be a workout log. Today’s date was written on the left side, but there were no miles logged. She looked back to the neatly made bed. “I would bet money, given Hadley’s rigid schedule, she got up, dressed for her run, and then made the bed.”
“If she was able to make the bed, where was Mark?” Vaughan asked.
“It’s a three-bedroom house, and the extra room is Mark’s office. The pillows on the couch looked creased. Maybe he’d been banished to the couch.”
Vaughan tapped an index finger against his thigh, as if he was mentally cataloging and thumbing through the facts. “Bud, did the paramedics say what Mark Foster was wearing when they found him?”
“He was wearing his business suit pants, white shirt, and tie. His clothes are being tested for DNA as we speak,” Bud said.
“Maybe he had been up early,” Zoe said.
“Is there another shower in the house?” Vaughan asked.
“There’s one off the upstairs hallway,” Bud said. “It’s dry, just like the one in the master bathroom. No one showered here this morning.”
Zoe and Vaughan moved down the center staircase to the kitchen, where one coffee mug sat on the counter. It was an extra large cup and sported the Washington Redskins logo. It was half-full. She touched the cup and then the pot. “Both are ice cold.”
“A man’s mug, unless Hadley liked large cups of coffee.”
“Fingerprints will tell us more.”
Zoe shifted her attention to the wooden knife block on the counter. The set of knives was expensive, the type a chef would envy, and all the slots were filled except one. “This slot is for a boning knife.”
“To cut meat?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any sign of it in the dishwasher?”
She opened the stainless dishwasher door and peered inside to an empty interior. “No.” She searched the drawers but didn’t see it.
“It would have been handy enough for anyone to grab on their way upstairs.”
“Agreed.”
Vaughan peered out over the kitchen window, toward the backyard. “The privacy fence gate is ajar.” He checked the door leading to the patio. It was unlocked.
But the blood trail led to a side door. Again, following what amounted to forensic bread crumbs, they opened the door and stepped into an empty garage big enough for one car.
“Yesterday when we were leaving, there was a black Lexus in the driveway that had not been there when we arrived.”
“Mark’s car,” she said.
“Hadley and Skylar left via this exit,” he said.
“The few cases I’ve worked like this one were always done by an acquaintance. It’s time to talk to Mark Foster. He should be out of surgery soon.”
Vaughan checked his watch. “Now you’re talking. I’ve been ready to talk to Foster since the moment I stepped over the blood in the foyer.”
CHAPTER TEN
Tuesday, August 13, 9:00 a.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Two Hours after the 911 Call
Vaughan drove to the hospital with Spencer tailing behind. His phone rang. “Hughes, what do you have for me?”
“I’ve got the judge’s signature. Now it’s a matter of collecting the Fosters’ financial data,” she said.
With a missing child in the mix, everyone in the system was moving full steam ahead. “Great. The more we know about this family, the better. We need to trace the family’s phones and find their Lexus. It’s black, late model, and I’d bet money it has a GPS locator on it.”
“I’ll check it out.” Someone in the background shouted Hughes’s name, but she told him to wait. The homicide room was always busy, and there was never a recession in their business. Hughes, along with the rest, was juggling multiple cases. “I also heard from the medical examiner. Dr. Baldwin is going to do the autopsy on your Galina Grant.”
“The Jane Doe stabbed in the motel room?”
“Yes. I ran her prints through AFIS, and no surprise, she’d been arrested for prostitution and drug charges multiple times.” Pages flipped in the background, and he imagined her searching the battered red notebook she always carried. “She was nineteen and had been in the area for about six months. It wasn’t her first time at this motel.”
“When is her autopsy scheduled?” Vaughan asked.
“Three this afternoon.”
“I want to be there.” He took a sharp right, knowing Spencer kept pace. “But I’ve got to find Hadley and Skylar first.”
“Understood. I can cover the autopsy, if it comes down to it,” Hughes said.
“Thanks.” Hughes was one of the best, but he already felt like he was shortchanging Galina Grant by handing this critical piece of the investigation off.
“Two stabbing cases in as many days. I hope this one doesn’t come in threes.”
No truer words were spoken. “Thanks, Hughes.”
Spencer followed him down a side street and then to the hospital lot. He parked near the emergency entrance and waited for her. They entered through the automatic doors of the ER.
Inside the ER, the hum of conversations, patients, and staff in the half dozen registration bays mingled with the sound of monitors and a lobby television broadcasting a health-themed talk show. Vaughan made his way to an open registration desk.
The registrar, a woman in her early twenties, had ink-black hair and pale skin. “Can I help you?”